Why It's Good To talk

'Stephen, baby! Nice speech - that's the way to resign. Now, can you speak on "The Role of Truth in Autobiography" at the Hay festival?'

I went to London the other day in order to do some Christmas shopping (Christmas wrapping paper is heavily discounted this time of year, I find) when who should I run into in the back streets of Soho but my old friend Adrian Wardour-Street, the unseen king of PR, and the only man brave enough last year to take on Osama bin Laden as a client.

"Hi, Adrian!" I said. "How's the Osama bin Laden account going?"

"Very well," he smiled. "When did you last see Osama in the headlines? Not for a long time. It's all going fine. Time for a coffee...?"

He steered me into a small coffee bar called, obscurely, "I'll Come Back To You, Caffeine" and ordered two small cups, after which we sat down on two small stools, with no table. Rents are obviously very high in Soho.

"So how is life in the country?" he asked me.

I was startled. He had never asked such a question before.

"Fine," I said. "It's been a lovely spring. If you thought the primroses were good this year, you should have seen the bluebells..."

"Please!" said Adrian, looking round him quickly. "How do you think it would be if I were caught in a public place talking about wild flowers?"

"Well," I said, "you asked me how it was in the country..."

"Yes, I know," said Adrian, "but what I really meant was: How far is it from you to Hay-on-Wye?"

"Hay-on-Wye? Bit over an hour? Less than two, certainly..."

"Could be useful," said Adrian, making a note in one of those pocket computers which only take twice as long as a notebook to use.

"What's this all about?" I said. "Thinking of spending a night with us en route to Wales?"

"Wales?" he said, visibly shuddering. "I wouldn't voluntarily go further west than Ealing, lad. No, as you probably read, the Hay-on-Wye Literary Festival are in a bit of a panic because star speakers have started dropping out of the festival – Germaine Greer, Jim Crace, that lot – as a protest against Nestlé's sponsorship, and I have been asked to look at rustling up some equally good stars at a moment's notice. Obviously I'm not desperate yet, but if I was, I might need you. If I was really desperate, obviously."

"They had Bill Clinton as one of the star speakers last year, didn't they?" I said.

"So they did!" said Adrian. "Good idea! He's probably looking for work again right now. I'll give him a bell..."

"I didn't mean that," I said. "I meant that the so-called Hay-on-Wye Literary Festival obviously doesn't limit itself to having writers as guest speakers. So why not look around for big names who are suddenly at a loose end? Stephen Byers, for example."

"Brilliant!" said Adrian. "The Role of Truth in Autobiography: A Talk by Stephen Byers."

"Or Martin Sixsmith..."

"Brilliant! From Russia to New Labour: Two Kinds of Double Speak in the 21st Century..."

"Or Roy Keane..."

"Not brilliant," said Adrian. "Irishmen are generally good speakers but sportsmen are generally bad speakers, and Irish sportsmen are not famous for their eloquence. Think of George Best. Nobody can ever remember anything he said, only something that was supposed to have been said to him. The thing about 'Where did it all go wrong?'..."

At that moment, his mobile rang. He answered it.

"Stephen, baby!" he said. "Nice speech. That's the way to resign. Now look, I think I've got a literary festival gig for you. Marvellous way to start your rehabilitation..."

Stephen, whoever Stephen was, did not seem keen, so Adrian rang off and dialled another number.

"Osama!" he said, when he got through. "Hi, baby. Could you step outside your cave for a moment – the reception's not great in there. That's better. Now, have you ever done a literary festival? They're loads of fun..."

I left him to it. I didn't want to get involved. Call me idealistic, but I wouldn't want to get mixed up in anything Nestlé sponsored. I used to think they were all right, but then I discovered one day that they were behind the manufacture of Nescafé. As a coffee-lover, I find that unforgivable.